Fruitless Recrimination
by Evil Jenyus
Summary: "It was even as he feared, only worse. And yet he could spare no moment in fruitless recrimination if tragedy was to be averted." Holmes/Watson SLASH. Yes, SLASH. Written in response to beautiful drawing by LJ's pennies-4-eyes. No smut as of yet.


**A/N: Yes, the pairing is Holmes/Watson. Leave now if you don't like it. Written to accompany a beautiful drawing done by Livejournal's pennies-4-eyes, which you can find at community(.)livejournal(.)com / holmeswatson09 / 602719(.)html (remove parenthesis and spaces). Enjoy!**

* * *

Watson was running; his cane lying forgotten in the sitting room, leaning against his chair accompanying the half-empty tea cup on the table. If the scruffy little boy who had appeared so suddenly hadn't shoved his bag into his hands he would have forgotten it as well in his haste.

Ducking through alleyways, rushing through puddles of water from the dark clouds above that threatened to resume the downpour that had been the whole reason Watson had been at home in the first place. Darting across another street, he barely registered the screams of startled horses and shouts of their handlers as he narrowly avoided being run-over. His thoughts were consumed by two things: the path he was following, insuring he made it to his destination, and the last words the boy had uttered before he had rushed so quickly from the room.

"He wouldn't wake up, sir. He be needin' you right quick. Hurry."

Holmes _needed_ him.

* * *

"Come now, my dear Watson, some fresh air will be just the ticket," Holmes said, turning from the window to smile back at Watson. Watson could not help but admire the consulting detective's mien, dressed quite splendidly in a clean shirt (_Watson's shirt_), waistcoat (_Watson's waistcoat, though Holmes insisted it was his own as it no longer fit Watson's frame properly_) and even a cravat knotted neatly (_Watson's cravat…wait, no that was actually Holmes' for once_). The overcoat he had over his shoulder seemed faded compared to the ebony darkness of his – for once – combed hair and dark eyes that Watson could seldom look away from. It was the attentiveness, though, that held Watson's attention this time, as it rare that he would see Holmes so obviously focused on the present.

Holmes had recently assisted Lestrade in apprehending what Holmes had deduced as a "group of thugs" who were behind several innocent people being beaten to death most violently. Having only solved the case a week and ago, he had yet to succumb to "stagnation of the mind" as he preferred to call what Watson's readers knew to be one of his "black moods".

"Sorry, old boy, you'll have to go without me. I fear my leg would not hold for long in this damp weather," the doctor replied, finally tearing his eyes away from his friend's form to glare at the scar on his thigh that only he could see through his trousers. How he did wish that he would never feel so restricted by the starburst of pale flesh that kept him from something as simple and trivial as a mere walk on a damp day.

"Ah, yes, forgive me," Holmes murmured, turning back to stare out the window at the overcast skies. "I estimate that we would not make it very far indeed before the precipitation once again began upon our very heads. However, the Persian slipper does need refilling, so I shall nip down the street and be back before the shop closes. Be back in a bit."

And with one last grin, Holmes slipped into his coat and was out the door. Watson heard the front door slam shut and realized Holmes had forgotten his hat.

* * *

He had just begun his second cup of tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson had prepared for him shortly after Holmes' departure when the small boy had come rushing up the stairs, storming into the sitting room. Watson had noticed that Holmes had been gone for quite a bit longer than what would usually take, but knowing Holmes he had gotten distracted observing some other customer who had come into the shop as he had.

"Who are you?" Watson asked, quite alarmed at the lad who couldn't me more than ten years of age came to stop in front of him, his clothes mismatched; his shirt far too large while his trousers were several inches too short. All of him, however, was dirty.

"Thomas, sir, of the Irregulars, sir," he answered, his eyes roaming the room as if searching for something as he removed his cap to scratch at his closely cropped hair.

"Ah, did Holmes send you?" the doctor inquired, setting his teacup down, readying himself for whatever message Holmes had deemed so urgent as to have to employ this child's services instead of simply coming home and telling Watson himself.

"Not exactly, sir," Thomas replied, replacing the cap on his head. "One o' them men he and the Yard caught for them murders came after him. He got 'im, but the thug caught him in the head." He seemed to find what he was looking for as he crossed the room to Watson's bag which had been sitting just inside his office, where he had taken his last patient of the day.

Quickly crossing the room again, the boy grabbed Watson's own coat, bringing them both to the alarmed doctor. "He made it to the end of the alley before he fell, sir, from the blow to his head. He wouldn't wake up, sir. He be needin' you right quick. Hurry."

He barely registered the directions the boy rattled off, throwing on his coat and grabbing his bag as he rushed out of the flat. He ignored the rain clouds that loomed overhead, the perturbed looks he received, even the twinge in his leg.

_"He wouldn't wake up, sir."_ Holmes needed him. _"Hurry."_ Holmes needed him now.

* * *

It was as he feared, only worse. And yet he could spare no moment in fruitless recrimination if tragedy was to be averted.

He could see the thug, who was surely twice as large as Holmes and obviously unconscious, approximately twenty meters further into the alley. He cared not. He had eyes only for the slim figure in front of him. Sprawled on his back, it was as if he had been walking before succumbing to his injuries; twisting as he fell to face skyward.

"Holmes!" Watson shouted, dropping to his knees beside the consulting detective's supine form, one hand flitting across his body – checking for other injuries – before coming to rest on his leg. The other came up to cup the detective's head from which he could see blood seeping from multiple wounds: a split in his lower lip, a small break in the skin on his right cheek where the thug must have gotten a lucky shot, then a gash above his left ear that was soaking his dark hair, matting it to his head.

"Holmes!" he cried again, checking his pulse and relief encompassing him for a brief moment as he felt the steady thrum of the rushing of blood within the man's jugular vein beneath his fingers. Checking his pupils next, he found both to be of equal size and reactive to the sudden change in light as he forced the eyelids apart. Holmes did not, however, respond at all to him.

"You will hear me. You simply must!" he growled desperately, his breath catching within his chest, eyes burning. When Holmes continued to be unresponsive, Watson remembered that he was a doctor once again and did the last thing he could think of before simply screaming for a Maria: he pinched him.

"Ow," Holmes moaned weakly, shifting within Watson's grasp, eyes opening with much blinking to stare up at the doctor. "Was it really necessary to pinch my posterior, Mother Hen? I do believe the medical journals all state to pinch the _ear_, not the _rear_."

Watson could only bark out a laugh which sounded closer to a sob than he was comfortable to admit. "Well, considering you were bleeding from a head wound and neither alert nor responsive to my voice I decided to take my chances," he replied, not removing either of his hands, instead moving to more firmly cup the man's unusually smooth jaw.

"I don't have the slightest clue why you worry so much, Mother Hen," Holmes replied, seemingly oblivious to the precarious position they were entangled in if someone were to discover them. "It was merely a superficial head wound. As a doctor you surely know that they bleed far more than any other wound due to the considerable amount of blood that is needed to-"

"Oh, shut up," Watson hissed softly, cutting Holmes off by pressing his lips to the detective's. He could feel Holmes first tense beneath his lips before melting against him, fingers coming to weave into his short hair, kissing back tentatively.

It was not until Watson's fingers accidentally migrated to brush against the still-bleeding gash on Holmes' head that they broke apart, Holmes with a hiss of pain. Watson returned to a professional state of mind, quickly turning to his forgotten bag, pulling out gauze to press against the wound until he could properly clean and bandage it.

"Watson," Holmes breathed, dark eyes never leaving Watson's, his hand tightening its grip where it came to rest on the doctor's forearm.

"Hush, let's get you home so I can tend to your injuries," he softly pressed, thumb brushing gently across Holmes' cheek before moving to help Holmes slowly rise to his feet.

"All of my injuries, Doctor?" Holmes inquired as he attempted to begin walking away as Watson bent to retrieve his bag.

"Of course," Watson replied, his tone one of puzzlement as he smoothly caught Holmes when he faltered, keeping an arm around him to prevent any further stumbling.

"Including the bruise on my buttocks you no doubt left with your vile _pinching_?" Holmes asked, barely concealing his amused smirk with a glare at the doctor. They stopped, Watson looking down at Holmes, their lips mere centimeters apart.

"Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?" the doctor retorted with the hint of a smirk on his lips, bringing the detective ever so slightly closer, his weight warm against his body.

Chocolate brown eyes widening minutely, he replied, "Why yes, my dear Watson; I do believe that will be just the ticket."

* * *

**A/N: This may or may not lead into a smut scene. Let me know what you think, for tis my first Sherlock Holmes story :)**


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